Strangelove
by Potix
Summary: "You're my friend, you're my daughter's godmother, and you deserve to know the truth. Let me tell you the truth, please." Post TFP.
1. Chapter 1

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

* * *

 _There'll be times_

 _When my crimes_

 _Will seem almost unforgivable"_

 _ **Strangelove - Depeche Mode**_

* * *

Three sharp knocks. A pause. Then another one.

Molly rushed to the door, ignoring the peephole. It was their code; a simple one, sure, but it worked. When she opened the door, she was surprised to see that John Watson looked worse than her. It seemed like he had taken a dive in a swimming pool with all his clothes on, and he had no time to change. She dared to take a sniff, but when the rancid smell reached her nostrils, she quickly regretted it. When she stopped examining his attire, she felt surprised to see that the doctor was scrutinizing her, too.

"John, hi! Is it about Rosie? Do you need me to take over from Mrs. Hudson?" she rushed to ask, but John shook his head.

"No, Rosie is fine, Mrs Hudson is staying at mine for the night. Listen, may I have a word with you… Inside, possibly?"

Molly blushed and let him in. "I'm sorry, John, it's just that I'm not-"

"Having a good day…" he finished, and Molly gaped at him. "John, please tell me that you're not here to speak to me about Sherlock Holmes. You have no idea of what he did this time, and-"

John stopped her once again. "I know what happened, Molly. I was there."

He watched as she closed her eyes, and let out a shaky breath; when her gaze fell on him again, it was blank. "Then I must ask you to leave me alone, John. Please… Go away."

"Not before you let me explain what happened, and why Sherlock called you and said… What he said. You may think that he tried to manipulate you, but you know that I won't do it to you, Molly. You're my friend, you're my daughter's godmother, and you deserve to know the truth. Let me tell you the truth, please."

John raised a hand, and tentatively squeezed her arm, letting his hand travel down, until he reached her hand. Wordlessly, he guided her to the sofa, and waited for her to sit down; only then, he plopped down.

"Where should I start? Oh, well… Do you know that Sherlock has a sister? Of course you don't because none but Mycroft knew it. Sherlock erased her existence from his memory when he was still a child, and now, after this day, I can't blame him."

John told her everything: how Eurus was the most intelligent Holmes, how she had played with all their lives for years, without even Mycroft, the British Government himself, (the man who had put his sister in a heavily guarded, isolated fortress to protect his little brother, his own family and his country) really understanding what she was capable of, until it was too late. He watched as Molly's eyes filled up with tears, as he described Victor Trevor's death, and how Eurus tortured everyone, during their stay at Sherrinford. He didn't leave anything out… But the phone call.

At last, after asking for a cup of tea, John decided that it was the right time, for Molly to know what had happened when Sherlock had called her.

"Eurus told us that someone was going to die, and it would be a tragedy; I had a feeling that it would be personal, this time. Someone we know, someone whose death would leave a hole in our lives." He took a sip of tea, and continued. "There was an open coffin, in the center of the room… And a lid, leaning on a wall. No name on it, just three words…"

"I love you." Molly's feeble voice said, and John felt a pang to his heart, hearing her saying those words, like she didn't believe in them anymore. It would be cruel to go on, but he needed to do it.

"Sherlock deduced it was you, the one that his sister wanted to kill. She told us that your flat was to explode in three minutes, unless you said the release code. She was bluffing, but we didn't know then. We couldn't tell you that you were in danger; Sherlock had to make you say those three words to him, to save you."

He let his words sink in, waiting for Molly to comprehend that Sherlock wasn't trying to use her again, to manipulate her feelings as he had done many times before.

"And I- I refused to say them… Only because I was sure he was trying to humiliate me!", she sobbed, and John hugged her tightly, murmuring words of comfort, until she calmed down, and hurried to her kitchen to find a kleenex.

"Molly, when he said…" John hesitated, then started again. "You may think that he said those three words to you without meaning it, to save your life… But believe me, I saw Sherlock manipulate people many times; he's such a cock that he made me believe that I was chased by a giant dog in a lab at Baskerville, that I was going to die in a Tube's carriages-"

"They're cars, not carriages", Molly said, and for a brief moment, John saw the shadow of a smile on her lips.

"You know Sherlock. You see through all his bullshit; you see him. Eurus wanted Sherlock to suffer, and the most efficient way to do it was to make you suffer because of him, to make you believe that the only way he would say those words to you, was during one of his stupid experiments."

Molly remained silent. In her mind she was replaying their exchange: every words, every hesitation, every sign of discomfort in his voice. For a moment, when he said it the second time, for a moment she felt like he wasn't lying to her; but she didn't know if it was only her love for him, wanting desperately to believe that he loved her too.

"Before we moved to the next room, he tore apart that coffin with his bare hands. I've never seen him lose control like that, Molly… And I've seen Sherlock doing many strange things."

Finally John stood up. "He wanted to save you so much, that he decided to sacrifice any chance to have you by his side, in any way, just to be sure that you would live another day."

Molly watched him reaching the door, and turning to her. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. You didn't answer his call the first time, so it's obvious you were angry with him for other reasons, and I'm convinced that he deserve to crawl at your feet, before you decide that he's worthy of your pardon. But Molly… at least, give him a little hope that he has not lost you. The man I saw today, destroying the coffin that we believed would contain your body, was a man without hope. Promise me you will think about it, I'm not asking for more."

She approached him, and hugged John. "I- I'll do it, John. I just need time, but… I will try."

"That's enough for me." He kissed her cheek, and left Molly Hooper alone, already waiting for the day when he would see her next to Sherlock, again.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. Leave a comment, you will receive good influence and beautiful dreams.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

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 _"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold."_ \- **Zelda Fitzgerald**

* * *

When Greg Lestrade arrived at St. Barts, three days after one of the strangest case in his career, he decided to go to the morgue. Maybe he could convince Molly to have a pause, and go with him to the canteen and have a coffee; and maybe, if he was really lucky, she would listen to him about Sherlock Holmes.

When the two Holmes and John Watson gave him their statements at Musgrave, he noticed immediately how Sherlock's was strangely incomplete. Both Mycroft and John told him how distressed that phone call had left the consulting detective, but in Sherlock's story there was no hint to what Eurus had made him do in order to save Molly's life.

Well, Sherlock might think that he was an idiot, but he knew how to recognise a man in denial when he saw one; so, Greg decided to give him a hand.

He had met Molly six months before Sherlock Holmes came into his life, the most intelligent (and less respectful) kid he had ever saved from an overdose; in a way, it was his fault if Molly Hooper's life had been turned upside-down by that moron.

Lestrade made a beeline for her office, and it baffled him to find it closed. He moved to the lab, and then to the morgue, but Molly wasn't there too. His phone call went immediately to her voice mail. "Hi, this is Molly at the dead centre of town. Leave a message."

He tried again, then he went to find Mike Stamford. "Oh yes, yesterday Molly asked me a week of vacation, and I was so happy that she finally asked for some rest, that I told her that she can stay home for two weeks. She's always here, covering for her colleagues, or running experiments for Sherlock Holmes… She deserves a holiday, don't you think?"

The DI left the hospital, sieving through the information that Stamford had given him. Molly told her supervisor that she was thinking about spending a weekend at some spa center just outside London, but Greg knew her well enough to understand that it was a lie: the only time Molly had visited a Spa had been with Mary, two months after Rosamund's birth, and he was sure that visiting another now, would certainly bring up too many sad memories about her friend.

If Molly had lied to her boss, a man that she admired and had such a high opinion of, it was because she wanted to be alone; he had no choice but to respect her wish, and hope that she was fine.

He took a look at his watch, and decided that he had enough time to pay a visit to another friend; he walked to his car, and headed to John Watson's home.

* * *

When he arrived, Mrs. Hudson opened the door. Little Rosie in her arms, she explained that John had to go to the clinic, but "Sherlock is in the living room, if you need to speak to him." She guided him to the consulting detective, then left to go to the kitchen to prepare some tea.

Sherlock was sitting on the armchair, looking outside the window. "So, Lestrade… You don't have any case for me, do you? So why are you here?"

Greg watched him for a long moment; he seemed fine, physically, but then his gaze fell to his hands, riddled by the cuts left by wood splinters, and he said: "Would you fancy a cigarette?"

Sherlock burst out from the armchair, his hand already on the French door's handle. "For fuck's sake, I thought you would never ask!"

They were puffing on their cigarettes when Lestrade decided to speak again. "I went to Bart's this morning. Stamford told me that Molly took some days of vacation, and I was thinking if-"

"I don't care", was Sherlock curt reply, before he threw away the cigarette stub and stomped on it. He surprised Lestrade how the younger man picked it up from the grass and put it in a kleenex.

"Mary doesn't want me to leave it here, she's sure I will set fire to the house one day…" Sherlock stopped, and shook his head. Lestrade took his last drag, and mimicked Sherlock's earlier actions.

"What a few months we've all passed… I still can't believe it. But at least there's a good lesson we can learn from all this."

Sherlock ignored him for a few seconds, then, he hung his head and sighed. "I'm sure you can't wait to tell me what it is, Gavin."

Lestrade let out a chuckle. "Now it's too late, Sherlock. Now I know that you were just pulling my leg, all these years. Still amazed by how many different names starting with the letter "G" you used…"

"Well, I'm a clever man…"

The DI watched him fondly. "No, you're an idiot, Sherlock Holmes, a massive idiot. If Mary were here, she would have kicked your ass, and then made you go to speak to her, probably by hijacking a helicopter she would have flown herself."

"There's nothing left to say, Lestrade. I don't what my brother and John told you, but what I did to Molly Hooper, was the cruelest thing I could have ever done to her; and believe me, I said and did horrible things to her, during these years. I don't think that her heart could contain enough mercy to forgive me, one last time. And I still don't know if I want to be pardoned." Sherlock tightened his grasp on the kleenex, and started to move back towards the house.

Lestrade didn't turn to watch him. "I don't care if you don't want to listen to me, I will tell you anyway: don't waste any more time, Sherlock. Don't throw away the greatest opportunity you have to be happy. Truly, completely happy. Neither of you deserve to suffer like that, only because you're too stubborn, or too afraid. After all that happened, after all these years, do you still believe that being alone will protect you?"

He had just pronounced the last word, when Lestrade heard the French windows close behind Sherlock. He could only hope that once again, Sherlock Holmes would use his heart, and not his famous mind.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. Leave a review, you will receive good influence and beautiful dreams.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

"This is a song, this is a song

a song for broken lovers

This is a song

This is a song, this is a song

a song to take you homewards

This is a song

This is a song, this is a song

a song to break your heart to

This is a song"

 **A song for Departure - Manic Street Preachers**

* * *

As soon as John left her flat, Molly sprinted to her kitchen. She tried desperately to find the hidden cameras, even though she knew she didn't have the skills to do it; after five minutes spent watching under (and over) the kitchen cabinets, a sequence of frightening thoughts dawned upon her : what if Euros had put cameras in the other rooms? Since when had she decided to control her? Could they have been there since the day she had invited there Jim from IT to watch Glee?

A feeling of dizziness seized her, and she leant back until her her body touched the counter behind her, and slowly slid down to the kitchen floor. She didn't know how long she had stayed there, trying to repress the tears and battling the nausea; she was too exhausted to care about anyone watching her having a mental breakdown.

She heard her mobile chirping, signalling a new message. She crawled until she reached her coffee table. "Are you home? I need to come to your flat. - GL"

Molly was trying to find the forces to send an answer, when the mobile rang.

"Hi, Greg- yes, I know about the cameras, and everything. Yes, John came and told me… No, I'm fine now, don't worry!" She tried to sound cheerful and calm, but she knew that Greg wasn't buying it. She told him that she would call Meena and spend the night with her, then she hung up and did what she had just told him. She lied to her friend, saying that the plumbing in the house were malfunctioning, and asking if she could crash by her just for one night. Meena was ready to offer her spare room for as long as she needed it, but Molly reassured her that one night was enough.

She managed to prepare a bag, and when Lestrade arrived with his men, she didn't waste time: she greeted the detective, and vehemently refused to be escorted by two policemen to Islington, where Meena lived.

The next morning, she said goodbye to Meena and went to St. Bart's. Mike was more than happy to allow her to take a week of vacation, offering even an additional week; for once in her life, she decided to be selfish, and accepted the extra week.

When she returned home that night, Molly unpacked her weekend-bag and took out her trolley; she threw inside her warmest jumpers and trousers, and carefully put it into her car. She was fastening her seat belts, when her phone rang. Lestrade… He would probably want to talk, but she had no time. After a long time, she was finally going home.

* * *

"So, this is your plan: driving alone for more than eleven hours, without calling your uncle to warn him that you're coming… And all of that, only because Sherlock Holmes told you that he loves you? Let me tell you, Molly, I think you're overreacting."

The pathologist let out an annoyed sigh. "I didn't ask you to come along, so feel free to leave this car and go back to… wherever you were before!"

"Oh, but you know I can't, Molly", Mary's bright voice argued. "It's you that asked me to come here, with your childish behaviour… And I have no intention to leave, not until you will decide to act like an adult woman and go back to London!"

Molly eyed a car which was trying to overtake her, and not for the first time she wished to be at the wheel of a supercar like Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin.

"Molly, come on… Don't ignore me! I know what you're doing, you know what you're doing, so it's only logical that you let me help you. Just this time, Molly… You're doing so much for Rosie, and for John, and I owe you something. Let me repay you, please."

She could just imagine Mary, sitting on the passenger seat, watching her with those big blue eyes, and so she decided to indulge her a little.

"Fine", she conceded. "But I'm warning you: if I hear something that I don't like, I will turn on the radio and ignore you, ok?"

"If you think that a radio can silence your conscience... " Mary's voice chuckled. "Anyway, I'm sorely disappointed with you. You dumped Jim Moriarty, helped Sherlock to fake his death and kept the secret for more than two years… And now, when the man you love tells you that he loves you too, you ran away. What are you afraid of, Molly?"

"I'm not afraid!", Molly shouted, and the car swerved suddenly to the right. She returned quickly to the lane, and swore. "Fuck, Mary, are you trying to kill me?"

"Stop being so dramatic, it doesn't suit you… And you didn't answer me: what are you running away from, Molly?"

"I'm- I'm not running away from anything… I just want to pay a visit to my uncle, that's all."

"Remember who are you talking to, Molly. You're fibbing, and I think I know why. You're terrified, even more than when Moriarty reappeared."

"And I presume you will tell me why I'm so afraid…", the pathologist offered.

"You're telling yourself that Sherlock lied to you, that he manipulated you once again, that he faked the sentiment that you hear in his voice when he said that he loved you-"

"It's Sherlock, Mary; he pretended to be dead for two years, for God's sake! He faked an entire relationship with Janine, just to enter Magnussen's office. He lied to all of us, about the drugs, several times. You know of what he's capable of, and I'm just tired to find excuses for his behaviour, every time."

Mary adopted her most soothing tone, and Molly almost felt a hand caressing her tense shoulders. "I know that you're tired, and angry; I know that he deserves to apologize to you, for all the times he hurt you. But Molly, we both know that it's not the reason you're driving to John O'Groats, alone, to see an uncle that calls you just once every two years. You're afraid, because you know that this time, he was not lying. He loves you, Molly, and this terrifies you… understandably. We're talking about Sherlock Holmes, after all!"

"Mary…"

"Don't try to deny it, Molly. I know what you're thinking… After all, I'm just a figment of your imagination."

"He didn't mean it. He was trying to save my life, and I know that Sherlock would do anything to save his friends' lives. He pretended to be dead to save John, Mrs. Hudson and Greg; he killed Magnussen to save you, Mary; and this time, he lied, saying that he loves me, to save me. I found it cruel, at first; now… Now I feel almost privileged, because I know that Sherlock cares for me, and it means a lot to me; but this feeling doesn't change the fact that I truly love a man who can't love me."

"Molly… No offence, but you're an idiot. And that's why you and Sherlock are bound to be together. You're both idiots, and one day you will have a bunch of wonderful, little idiots, who will marry other idiots. It's the circle of life."

Molly's hand got close to the radio, and Mary's voice sighed. "Fine, I won't call you an idiot any more, but trust me, it's very difficult not to, when you say such nonsense. Do you remember that afternoon, in the lab, when you noticed how hard Sherlock was trying to hide his sadness, when John was around? What did he tell you?"

Molly let out a shaky breath, before answering. "That I could see him."

"Exactly. Everyone knows that you're the only one who can't be fooled by him; you learned to see through his bullshit a long time ago. So I suggest that you drive to the next exit, find the nearest bed and breakfast, and rent a room. After a night of sleep, and a generous breakfast, you will put on a brave face, and call the only man who can show you the truth."

"Really? And who is this person?"

Molly knew Mary was dead, but she could imagine her friend winking at her. "Your future brother-in-law, my dear: Mycroft Holmes."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. Leave a review, you will receive good influence and beautiful dreams.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

Absence is to love as wind is to fire: it extinguishes the little flame, it fans the big." - **Umberto Eco** **  
**

* * *

"Alive! For all these years?! How is that even possible?" Mummy's voice sounded so high, with just a hint of hostility, barely detectable under the obvious disbelief… But Mycroft was sure that the animosity would soon peep out.

"What Uncle Rudi began…", the man behind the British Government hesitated, then continued, his eyes pointed downward, "I thought it best to continue."

"I'm not asking how you did it, idiot boy!" As he had anticipated, the first insult had arrived within the first two minutes. "I'm asking, how could you?"

It was the same question he had asked himself many times, during all those years. He knew, he was still firmly convinced that he had taken the right decision, by deciding to hide Eurus, to protect his family, and his country, too. And in a way, he felt relieved, now that the burden was off his shoulder, even if nobody in that room seemed to understand that he did it just to keep all of them safe.

"I was trying to be kind", was the only answer he could offer; a very weak reply, he knew, but the most sincere he could muster.

"Kind? Kind?", Mrs Holmes scoffed. "You told us that our daughter was dead." She was on the brink of tears, and Mycroft knew that his next words would make her suffer even more… But he had to tell her, what her daughter, his sister, really was.

"Better that, than tell you what she had become." For many years, he had kept the secret… All alone, knowing that it was the safest, and at the same time the cruellest, thing he could do. To Eurus, to his family… To Victor Trevor's parents, who grieved for years, for a son who had the only fault to be Sherlock's best friend.

Now, all he could do, was to offer his apology. "I'm sorry."

His father, silent until that moment, heavily stood up. "Whatever she became, whatever she is now, Mycroft, she remains our daughter." Father, always the forgiver… Maybe, one day, he would grant the same pardon to his eldest son, Mycroft could only hope.

"And my sister." Everyone seemed to ignore how hard it had been for him, to do what he had to do.

"Then you should have done better." Mummy's condemning tone confirmed Mycroft's belief. He was still alone.

Then, Sherlock spoke. "He did his best." Four words, whispered softly, and a glimpse of the Sherlock of many years before, when he was just a bright and loving child, appeared in front of Mycroft.

"Then he's very limited." Mummy's censorious words didn't sting as hard as before, now that he was seeing that he had at least an ally in the room.

"Where is she?", Father asked, and he answered promptly. "Back in Sherrinford, secure this time." He needed to make them understand, how dangerous Eurus was. Their parents still remembered her as a child, maybe a bit strange, but still innocent at her core; they didn't see the cunning, deranged woman who had plotted with Moriarty, and played with their lives in Sherrinford.

"People have died. Without doubt, she will kill again if she has the opportunity. There's no possibility she'll ever able to leave."

His father didn't seem to be fazed by his revelation. "When can we see her?"

Well, maybe his next answer would. "There's no point."

"How dare you say that!" Mummy sounded outraged, and broken, but Mycroft knew that they deserve all the truth, even if it would hurt them even more.

"She won't talk. She won't communicate with anyone in any way. She has passed beyond our view… There are no words that can reach her now." So close… And yet so distant.

"Sherlock?" Mummy turned to her youngest, hoping he would help them. At his silence, she prompted him. "Well? You were always the grownup. What do we do now?"

Mycroft watched his brother. The grownup, as their mother said… The one who had been forced to grow up, to forget his childhood, in order to bury the pain and let it disappear. He knew, as Eurus did, that he had chosen one of his siblings over the other; he had shaped his memories, his view on feelings, on people, just to protect his little brother, while his little sister was growing up in a prison, away from a family who knew her dead...

He waited, in silence, until Sherlock spoke again. "We'll show her that we are still her family. That no matter what happened, we'll still look after her." His piercing gaze focused on Mycroft. "That we'll always protect her… Even if it means, protecting her from herself."

The man behind the British Government allowed himself the tiniest smile, just a corner of his mouth slightly lifted, at Sherlock's words. At last, finally someone understood the reason behind the lies he had told his family for years.

It was in that exact moment, that Mycroft's private line rang. Only an handful of people had his private number: his family, his loyal assistant Anthea, the Watsons (only John Watson, now), Lestrade, Lady Smallwood, of course… And the person who was currently calling him.

"Miss Hooper, to what I owe the pleasure?".

Mycroft could feel Sherlock's piercing gaze on him, and decided that it was time to play just a little bit.

He let Molly explain that she was staying in a small bed & breakfast near Sheffield, and that she needed to have the video recording of that phone call; then he paid close attention to use his best flirting tone to answer her request.

"Of course, Miss Hooper… May I call you Molly, dear?". He listened to Molly uttering her consent, then he continued. "Your wish is my command… I will personally make sure that you will have what you're asking for, before the end of the day. Enjoy your stay, and try to rest a little. Goodbye, Molly."

When he raised his eyes from the phone, Sherlock was leaning on his desk, his frowning face betraying his annoyance. "Since when do you call Dr. Hooper by her first name?"

"Well, Sherlock, it's custom to call a friend by their first name, isn't it? Surely Mummy and Dad taught you so when you were a child…"

Mrs Holmes watched Sherlock sized his brother up, while her older son seemed genuinely amused by his brother's reaction. They were adults, still behaving like little children.

"Molly Hooper is my friend, Mycroft, not yours."

Mycroft smiled at his brother's firm statement. "Sherlock… Do you still believe that? After what happened at Sherrinford, how can you be so positive about the state of your friendship with Miss Hooper?"

Mycroft knew that he was being cruel, but he also knew, more than anyone else, which buttons to push in order to make Sherlock react.

He watched his brother straightened himself up, and distance himself from the desk, before approaching their mother, and kissing her on the cheek; then he gave a sharp nod to his father, and exited the room.

"Where is he going?", his father asked, and Mycroft smirked at him, before answering, as cryptic as ever.

"To lose a friend, I hope…"

 **Thanks for reading. Leave a review, you will receive good influence and beautiful dreams.**


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